


A Closed Bookshop (and a Open Heart)

by JennaMoon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cute, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Other, Short, Sleeping Angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-10-01 19:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20380201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaMoon/pseuds/JennaMoon
Summary: The bookshop had been closed at 4:30 PM.How unusual.





	A Closed Bookshop (and a Open Heart)

The bookshop had been closed at 4:30 PM. Half an hour before the official closing time, for a Tuesday evening that is. The sun was only just beginning to hide behind the tops of buildings, streetlights dim or, in some cases, not on at all.

Cold tea, sat in a delicate china cup decorated with soft blue doves and larks, lay on the counter, next to the till (iron and mechanical). Bookmarks, free for any and all customers, lay scattered by the till. Unusual, if you knew what you were looking at.

And Crowley did, indeed, know that something was unusual.

“Angel?” He called out, clicking his fingers to lock the front door back up. “Are you in, Angel?” He called out again. Rather (once again) unusually, Aziraphale was not answering his phone. Both mobile (not that it was often on) and landline.

Crowley craned his neck around the book-wall that acted as a room partition. He wasn’t sat in the plush armchair, eating cakes or biscuits. Or sipping honey-tea or Horlicks or hot chocolate, either.

How unusual.

“He could be out… nah, Angel wouldn’t go out. Who does he know that isn’t me? What a daft thought… Angel?”

The first floor of Aziraphale’s bookshop was, as you may assume, a flat. It wasn’t messy, per se; Aziraphale had collated a great many souvenirs over the years and they weren’t all central London flat-sized. Originally.

It didn’t surprise Crowley that his silly Angel had been in trouble once or twice due to frivolous miracle-making. When the mast of Noah’s Ark is able to fit under your kitchen sink, you have a problem. Just a little bit of shrinking wouldn’t be a problem amongst demons, but Crowley was well-aware of the sticks up Aziraphale’s superiors’ arses. He didn’t want to think of how many infractions his Angel had been in over the time-travelling-for-crepes phase. An ongoing phase, too. He’d have to start being the one to instigate the time-travelling once again, not that he really minded. There’s a lot he wouldn’t mind doing, for his Angel anyway.

“Angel, I’m coming in!” Crowley warned as he pushed open the mahogany door. The small of semi-freshly baked pastries wafted through the air, from the kitchen off the left of the living room. He’d make a note to take a couple, if Aziraphale had been the one to make them. “Angel?”

He was not on the tartan (again?) sofa, cuddled beneath a blanket from renaissance Italy. Crowley allowed his fingers to dance over the stretched fabric, working to meld the fabric back into its original taut, rich shape. He remembered the day the had come across that particular blanket, on their way back from saving the Sistine Chapel from collapsing. Well, his Angel had done the saving. Crowley had more of a passive role on that occasion. Quipping from the side-lines as Aziraphale winced from the thought of another passive-aggression note. Still, to celebrate his Angel’s success, he led him to a market.

And that’s when Aziraphale saw the blanket, blowing in the Spring air. Well, it’s not like he could just let his Angel go without, right?

So, he stole the blanket.

Crowley expected that Aziraphale knew; why would the Angel not know? He wasn’t an ‘idiot’ (he liked to remind the demon of that fact quite often), and knew that Crowley didn’t really deal with money.

The Angel had kept it, though. After all this time. Crowley felt a content smile grace his features. Only his angel could make him act this way.

Speaking of his Angel… “Aziraphale?” He called again.

It had crossed his mind that perhaps, just perhaps, his Angel was out after all. With friends? What friends? Crowley wasn’t aware of any ‘friends’. Not that he would be jealous of such ‘friends’… At all. No; it would just be weird for any fraternising that dear Aziraphale took part in to not be spoken about in a gleeful, open tone.

If he was reporting to his superiors, then he would have told Crowley. That way, Crowley could do the same and nothing, absolutely nothing, could be misconstrued. Or misunderstood. They were working together for the best interest of humanity, after all. They communicated fantastically well with each other.

Crowley edged open the door to the bedroom. He had been in there once or twice; when he and his Angel had gotten drunk and decided to snuggle. Only, snuggle. He’d never attempt to seduce his Angel drunk. If he did so, he would never forgive himself.

The bedroom was a cream colour, decorated in paintings collected throughout time. He was certain the actual portrait of the Mona Lisa was plastered onto the wardrobe… or maybe the door?

A lamp that basked the room in a warm, yellow glow sat in the corner of the room. Next to it, a sturdy oak-framed rocking chair, holding a knitting basket, which in turn had nestled within it a 80% completed jumper. For who? Crowley wasn’t sure. He hoped that his angel wouldn’t be making Gabriel anything. That smarmy bastard deserved nothing from such a sweet soul.

Besides a good arse-kicking.

But Aziraphale was far too sweet for that.

And across from the sturdy rocking chair (at the halfway point there was a Persian rug, completely clear of dust) was a double bed, white linen laid out and knitted blankets strewn across with purpose. That purpose being, of course, to cover the sleeping form of Aziraphale. His Angel, fast asleep, at 4:33 PM…

How unusual.

“Oh, Angel…” Crowley muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What in the world are you playing at?” He ran a hand through the soft, golden-white curls that graced his Angel’s head, before leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Sweet Angel.”

“Crowley…” It made him freeze, the Angel’s soft lips forming his name. Had he been caught? Lips pressed upon a pale brow, feelings unmasked. And was he prepared to face that truth?

He could click his fingers, disappears… It took a lot of energy but… well, if he had to…

“Hmm.” And a snore. Still soft. Why was his Angel endlessly soft, down to his sleepy noises?

“Oh, Angel…” Crowley heaved himself off the bed, slithers of regret latching to his heart. “I’ll stay.” He decided, tongue flicking a silent hiss. “I’ll stay.”

His Angel was just that. His. And he’d make sure his dreams were clear and full of light.

Settling back down, the demon kicked off his shoes (Italian leather, a gift from Aziraphale back when good ol’ Queen Vic was about) and shrugged off his jacket. He laid down, hand on the soft lump his Angel had created on the bed.

“I’ll stay, Angel.” He repeated, rubbing Aziraphale’s soft arm. “Because that’s what you need.”


End file.
